The Library at the Edge of the World

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  44

  At first Conor hadn’t been all that impressed by God’s Garden, the book that Oliver the dog man had found in the nuns’ bookcase. It was a kind of Herbal, a collection of information about herbs and flowers, how to grow them, and what illnesses they cured. But the layout was really boring and the photos were black and white. Conor couldn’t find a credit for the author or the photos. He couldn’t find the name of the publisher either, so maybe it had been privately printed back in the day by the nuns.

  In any case, it was definitely about the convent. There were line-drawn plans as well as photos, and one showed the school building with its entry from the courtyard on one side, and the convent with its nuns’ entrance round the back. The parking lot with its little gate from the courtyard and its big exit onto Broad Street wasn’t there. Instead there were high walls around the whole plot enclosing a garden in the middle. As he turned the pages Conor found that looking at the plans was like watching a film in which the camera pulled in tighter and tighter, revealing more detail. And after a while he’d got sucked in.

  Then a couple of the girls who’d been chatting at the corner table came over to say goodbye and one of them asked about the book. By that stage Conor was reading about how herbs had one and sometimes two names in English and one in Latin. Apparently most of them were medicinal, which meant that they could be dangerous. So the different names were written in the book in big print, with a photo and the relevant information beside them, presumably so you wouldn’t end up putting poison in your soup.

  “That’s really cool.” One of the girls leaned on the desk and squinted over Conor’s shoulder, and a woman who’d been looking for a book on the shelves came over and joined them. She had no idea that the nun’s garden was so big, she said. She remembered it being there when she was at school but no one was allowed to go into it. The girl grinned and said that was no wonder if they were all in there brewing poisons.

  “It sounds like an Agatha Christie.”

  The woman, who was about Miss Casey’s age, laughed. “I don’t know about that but I do remember my mother saying they used to make great cough medicine. With rose hips or hyssop or something. And I remember they had different-colored flowers for different feast days. And lavender and rosemary to keep moths out of the altar cloths. I used to be bored to death in the chapel myself, but it always used to smell great.”

  Conor turned the pages back to where there was a list of saints. He didn’t know the names of half of them but they each seemed to have their own flower. On the opposite page there was a plan showing all the garden beds with little paths between them and the names of plants written on the beds in tiny handwriting.

  When he was closing the library he took the book back to the bookcase and carefully replaced it on its shelf. Unlike the big, leather-bound book with the amazing paintings of Italy, it didn’t seem very old and its pictures were pretty boring. It was kind of interesting, though, and he’d thought about taking it home to finish it. But it belonged in the glass-fronted bookcase and he didn’t want an earful from Miss Casey.

  The following day, to his surprise, people had been into the library all morning asking about it. First it was the woman who’d seen him reading it yesterday. Today she wanted to borrow it for her mother. Then, as Conor was explaining that she couldn’t because it wasn’t actually in the library’s collection, another woman arrived. Her daughter, who was the one who’d said the book was cool, had texted her straight after breakfast suggesting she ought to drop in. At that point Miss Casey came over to see what was happening. Conor explained about Oliver the dog man finding the book and people now wanting to borrow it, and Miss Casey said he was absolutely right. They couldn’t go lending a book that wasn’t catalogued. Then, when the women got all upset, she said Conor could put it on a table and they could look at it there. Since it wasn’t library property, he was to be the only one to handle it, and he’d better make sure his hands were good and clean. So he’d done that and when the women were asking questions about it a couple of men came over to listen. Then somebody started sending texts and more people began to wander in for a look at the book. Conor had felt like a bit of an eejit turning pages as if it was The Book of Kells, and, actually, there wasn’t much to look at, but everyone loved the story of how it had turned up. As the last person left at closing time she looked back over her shoulder and smiled.

  “Talk about a real hidden treasure! And it’s all about our own place, too. God, it’d make you think, wouldn’t it, about how things were in the old days?”

  Conor’s feet hadn’t touched the floor after that. It was early-closing day and as soon as they’d pulled down the blinds and set the alarm, Miss Casey had put God’s Garden in a padded envelope and said they were going round to see Sister Michael. When they reached the convent door she ignored the huge knocker and pressed a bell, which had an intercom beside it. It was only a minute before they heard Sister Michael’s voice and moments later she ushered them in.

  It wasn’t at all like Conor had imagined it when he’d thought of the deserted convent. Instead of cobwebs and candles there was a sofa and a couple of easy chairs, a sideboard, an old-fashioned TV set. There were also lots of statues and holy pictures and piles of Daniel O’Donnell CDs. But no more than you’d get at your granny’s. Sister Michael was wearing a V-necked pullover and skirt under a businesslike stripy apron. She’d been vacuuming Sister Consuelo’s bedroom, she said, so they’d have to excuse her appearance. Sister Consuelo turned out to be the other ancient nun who was still living in the convent, and, as far as Conor could gather, Sister Michael was her full-time caregiver. He could see that Miss Casey was surprised when she heard that, but Sister Michael said thank God she still had her health and her strength and all her marbles, while, these days, poor Sister Consuelo hardly knew her own name. Sister Michael cooked and cleaned for the two of them and the district nurse dropped in regularly. So that was grand. It was nice to see them now though, because she didn’t get many visitors, and what could she do for them?

  Hanna drew a book out of the padded envelope. “This turned up in the library yesterday. It looks like a history of the convent garden so I wondered if you knew anything about it?”

  Sister Michael took the book and opened it.

  “Would you look at that? Last time I had this in my hand I’d spend half the day scrubbing floors, the other half digging in the garden, and I could still be up at midnight scouring pots. God, you had to be a fit woman to work in this place, I can tell you.”

  She knew the book well, she said, because she’d used it herself when she’d worked in the nuns’ garden.

  Conor thought it sounded like she’d done an awful lot of work. But Sister Michael shook her head. She was a farmer’s daughter, she said, and working with lovely sweet-smelling herbs and flowers beat lifting spuds or chopping mangold beets on the side of a windy hill. Looking at the elderly nun’s rheumatic hands, Hanna imagined her as a teenage lay sister scrubbing and digging in the kitchen and the garden, and wondered if she ever got time to pray. She didn’t speak her thought aloud but Sister Michael turned and smiled at her. There were some lines of poetry at the end of the book, she said, about being nearer to God in a garden than anywhere else on earth. Hanna half-remembered the quotation, which came from a sentimental, rumpty-tumpty Edwardian poem and still turned up on plastic plaques in garden centers.

  “Do you think that’s true?”

  Sister Michael folded her hands on her stripy apron and shrugged. Wherever God was, she supposed, He or She might be found out in a garden as well as anywhere else.

  “I don’t know at all, girl, and I don’t be wasting time thinking about it. I’ll be dead soon enough, and I’d say I’ll have my answer then.”

  Laying the book on the coffee table, she fixed her eye on Hanna.

  “So, why don’t we drop the theology, and talk about why you’re here.”

  “Well . . .” Determined not to sound overexcited, Hanna nodded at
God’s Garden. “It could be that we’ve found our ‘Big Thing.’”

  Sister Michael got up and walked purposefully to the sideboard. They’d have a small sherry each, she said, and Hanna could tell her all about it.

  According to Miss Casey, the idea had come to her this morning when she’d seen the response to God’s Garden.

  “People are finding it fascinating. They’re identifying with it because it reminds them of their past.” Miss Casey set down her glass and spoke to Sister Michael. “I thought the library might put on a talk.” As she went on Conor could see that she was really excited, though she was trying to keep her cool. “No one could say that the venue was inappropriate. You’d be giving a talk about a book.”

  Sister Michael blinked. “I’d be giving it?”

  “Of course. Conor found the book. People were asking questions. Conor asked you and you said you’d give a talk.”

  Conor blinked. “I asked her?”

  Miss Casey looked at Sister Michael. “Am I right? Is this the Big Thing? You said I’d recognize it when I saw it.”

  Sister Michael looked back at her and nodded. “I think it is.”

  Suddenly Miss Casey looked deflated. “The trouble is that I can’t see where it leads us.”

  Conor couldn’t either. But Sister Michael wasn’t bothered. It was the right start, she said, and that was what mattered. And there was never any point in second-guessing the future. Sure you could get up in the morning and be dead by the afternoon.

  45

  On a plane descending into Stansted Airport, Jazz closed her Kindle and reached for her bag. Flights to London were always sought-after by the airline’s employees so she had been lucky to grab one to coincide with her couple of days off.

  It still felt weird to walk the streets from the train station to the London house and know that her mum wouldn’t be there waiting for her. Jazz suspected that Mum would love to know if the house had changed, but it was clear that the subject was off-limits, so they never talked about it. Perhaps even the most amicable of divorces left pits of possessiveness that could open up at unexpected moments.

  In the past, coming home had always meant homemade buns or the smell of dinner in the oven. Now the fridge held expensive microwave meals and packets of smoked salmon, the kitchen looked unused and the table in the conservatory where Mum had always kept a stack of library books was a charging station for Dad’s iPhone. When Jazz was small she had insisted on keeping her own library books on that table, next to Mum’s. They had walked to the public library together every Friday after school and chosen their reading for the weekends down in Norfolk. Then, on their way home with their arms full of books, they had stopped to feed birds in the park.

  Looking back, Jazz reckoned that Mum had taken as much pleasure as she had herself from the children’s books that they’d read when she was small. Apparently Mum hadn’t read much in her own childhood; and knowing Mary Casey’s habit of sniffing whenever reading was mentioned, Jazz could well believe it. How strange, though, to have grown up without books like The Wouldbegoods and The Secret Garden. But perhaps those nineteenth-century English stories wouldn’t have meant much to kids in twentieth-century Ireland. Actually, Jazz told herself, they hadn’t reflected her own childhood experience either, any more than she had identified with the experiences of the American children in Little Women or What Katy Did. But reading the same books that your friends read gave you a sense of belonging. The loss of that sense of shared experience was one of the things that had bothered her when she and Mum moved to Ireland. Though, in the end it all worked out okay, and, as well as keeping her old friends, she’d made new ones.

  There was a note from Dad in the kitchen saying he’d booked a table at one of her favorite restaurants and to meet him there for dinner. Having showered and blow-dried her hair, Jazz went to choose a dress. It was airline policy for off-duty staff on company flights to travel in uniform, and for a moment she entertained the idea of turning up in her slightly battered uniform hat, which had suffered from too many flights spent in overhead lockers. But it didn’t seem fair to tease Dad. So she found a gray fitted dress with a dark green belt and wore it with green stilettos and a cashmere shawl. There was no doubt that the elegant person she was in London looked very different from the efficient Jazz in her brass-buttoned uniform and the girl who spent much of her time in Finfarran in muddy boots and jeans. For a while that had confused her. But now that she was older, she told herself, the apparent contradictions had resolved themselves, and, whatever she might be wearing, she felt comfortable in her skin.

  Dad was already in the restaurant, looking as sleek and well-tailored as all the other male diners in their city suits. He stood up, enveloped Jazz in a bear hug, and pulled out a chair. There was champagne on ice in a stand by the table, which was poured the moment she sat down. It was relaxing to be waited on after a heavy week at work. Dad ordered for them both. The foie gras, he said, and a couple of micro-leaf salads. Followed by Jazz’s favorite lamb dish. And he’d have the catch of the day, which came with the chef’s signature sauce. Then, smiling at Jazz over the menu, he suggested fat chips.

  “Honestly, Dad!”

  “Well, you always used to like them.”

  “When I was about twelve!”

  “Oh, come on, no one ever grows out of fat chips.”

  He looked at the menu and registered mild surprise. The waiter responded immediately.

  “I’m sure chef would be happy to make some, sir. A bowl to share?”

  “Perfect. Good man.”

  This was a world away from the cramped conditions in which Jazz herself was accustomed to serve food, and she knew the chef wouldn’t pause in his creation of Michelin-starred meals to produce a bowl of fat chips; that would be down to some underling. It was just a game. Dad paid over the odds for his fashionable dining experience and the restaurant reciprocated by indulging his every whim. And as a result, in his terms at least, everybody was happy.

  He had certainly set himself out to please Jazz. After the main course they shared a pudding compounded of meringue, honey, dark chocolate, and lime, all of which she adored. Then at the end of the meal, over coffee, he mentioned his mum. She was due in London next week to do some shopping and go to the Hampton Court Flower Show. It would be wonderful if Jazz could stay on and spend time with her.

  Feeling slightly irritated, Jazz selected a chocolate from the dish that had come with the coffee. She’d be sorry to miss her Granny Lou, who was good company, but did Dad really think she could take time off work just like that? He leaned toward her, looking reproachful. Granny Lou wasn’t getting any younger and she missed her granddaughter. Wouldn’t it be nice to take a relaxing week or so, share some retail therapy, and keep her from rattling round the house all alone?

  “A week! I’d be out of a job if I even suggested it!”

  He stirred his coffee. “And would that be so bad? I know this air-hostess thing was a bit of an adventure but, let’s face it, it’s not really a job. Isn’t it time you thought about the future?”

  He had a friend who owned a travel company. There was an internship available in the head office and it was hers if she wanted to snap it up.

  “But I don’t want to snap it up. I’m perfectly happy with the job I’ve got.”

  “I know you love travel and this is a wonderful entry opportunity. Of course, I’d hoped you’d go to university . . .”

  Jazz sat bolt upright and her coffee cup rattled in its saucer.

  “I know you did. You never fail to mention it. But I’m sick to death of telling you, Dad, it’s not what I want.”

  He looked pained; but before he could speak she kept going.

  “And I don’t want an internship either. I’m working. It’s work I’ve chosen. I love it, I’m good at it, and, as it happens, I’m about to get a promotion. Not that you’d be interested. As far as you’re concerned it’s all beneath me. Actually, no, it’s beneath you. I bet you can’t even be
ar to mention it when you talk to your smarmy friends!”

  She had known from the start that he disliked her job with the airline. But somehow she’d thought that by sticking to her guns and achieving success she’d eventually gain his approval.

  “I have a flat, Dad, a lovely place of my own in France where I live with good friends. I have independence and, for all you know or care, I may even have a career plan. One that doesn’t involve calling in favors from my dad’s rich contacts.”

  It crossed her mind that they must look very alike as they glowered across the table at each other. Mum always said that when she was angry she had the same set to her jaw as Dad had if he was crossed. But Dad very seldom lost control and now, to her dismay, Jazz found herself close to tears.

  “Don’t give me all that stuff about Granny Lou missing my company. You’re just killing two birds with one stone. You want me out of my nasty little, low-class budget airline all right, but you also want a social secretary. Well, it’s not going to be me. Oh, I know, why not ask Tessa? Oh, hang on, I forgot. Tessa has a career to get on with. She may even have a social life that doesn’t center on you!”

  A new look crossed Dad’s face, one that Jazz hadn’t seen before. But the realization that had just gripped her couldn’t be contained.

  “I’m not Mum, and I don’t exist to make life easy for you. I’ll see Granny Lou when she and I want to, not when it’s convenient for you!”

  There was a long pause in which Jazz felt cold. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders. Then, realizing that she was avoiding Dad’s eyes, she looked up at him. His face was pale, his jaw was clenched, and when he spoke his voice sounded different. It was slow and stifled and his eyes were like glass.